David Peace - The Damned Utd

* * *

You beat Manchester United 3–1 at the Baseball Ground on Boxing Day. Manchester United and Tommy Docherty. You move up to seventh and United go bottom. You’d thought it was a turning point, another turning point, like Benfica, like Arsenal. But you were wrong again. It was no turning point .

You pick up the phone. You dial Longson’s number. You scream down thatline: ‘If Peter bloody Taylor isn’t at fucking work by Friday, I shan’t be going to Liverpool with the fucking team. I’ll fucking walk out and all, I will!’

‘ What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?’ asks Sam Longson .

Money, money, money, that’s what’s wrong; that’s all that’s ever fucking wrong with Peter Taylor; money, money, money –

You hang up. You go round to Longson’s house. You beg Longson to sack Taylor. You throw your drink at his kitchen wall when he refuses –

‘ I’m getting bloody nowhere with you fucking buggers!’ you shout .

‘ But what’s wrong?’ asks Sam Longson –

Money, money, money, that’s what’s wrong; that’s all that’ll ever be fucking wrong with Peter Taylor; all that Peter ever goes on about, on and on about :

‘ I just want my slice of the cake,’ he’d said again. ‘Just my fucking slice .’

‘ You get your slice,’ you told him. ‘You get your slice and more .’

‘ Do I fuck.’ he said. ‘Where’s my new bloody coat? My waste-disposal unit? Where are my fucking Derby County shares then, eh? ’

‘ Your bloody what? What you fucking talking about now? ’

‘ Don’t fuck me around, Brian,’ he said. ‘Webby’s told me all about it .’

‘ All right then,’ you told him. ‘You have the whole fucking cake if you want it, if that’s what’s fucking bothering you, because I can bloody do without it, without all this fucking bollocks. But I’m telling you this: you won’t last a fucking minute, not a single fucking minute out there, on your own, in front of all them cameras, them crowds, you can’t even buy a pair of bloody socks in town, you’re that fucking afraid of being recognized, of someone speaking to you who you don’t bloody know but, go on, if that’s what you want, that’s what you fucking want, you fucking take it because I’m telling you now, I’ve had enough, enough to fucking last me a bloody lifetime .’

That was ten days ago; the last you saw of him, saw of Pete; Webby phoned the next day and said Peter was feeling a bit chesty. Ten days ago, that was –

‘ A bit chesty?’ you asked Webby. ‘A bit fucking chesty? ’

‘ Chesty, you know?’ said Webby. ‘Under the weather .’

‘Under the bloody what?’ you asked .

‘The weather,’ said Webby, again .

That was ten fucking days ago now; that’s how this year begins –

This new year you’ll wish had never happened –

Nineteen hundred and seventy-three –

The worst year of your life .

* * *

Under skies. Under bloated skies. Under bloated grey skies. Under bloated grey Yorkshire skies, I walk from the taxi straight up the banking and onto the training ground.

Six days into the new season and the team already look like they need a week off. But there are no weeks off, no days off now, not now; Birmingham at home on Saturday, the day after tomorrow. Queen’s Park Rangers again, three days after that. No days off –

‘They can get here on bloody time,’ says Syd. ‘Why can’t he?’

‘It sets a bad example,’ adds Maurice. ‘A very bad example, in fact.’

Jimmy jogs up to me. Jimmy in his Admiral fucking tracksuit. And Jimmy says, ‘I think they’ve done enough for today, Boss.’

I shake my head. I shout, ‘Let’s start again. From the fucking top.’

From the fucking top with the running and the lifting, the passing and the shooting, the free kicks and the corners, the goal kicks and the throw-ins, the set plays to plan and the walls to build, attack against defence, defence against attack, attacks to sharpen and defences to stiffen, stiffen and make resolute under these skies. These bloated skies. These bloated grey skies. These bloated grey Yorkshire fucking skies.

* * *

Soon there will be European nights again, soon there will be sunshine again. No one walks away from Europe. No one walks away from sunshine. Taylor showed up in the snow at Anfield and you drew 1–1 on a miserable, miserable day .

‘ It’s this bloody weather, Pete,’ you told him. ‘We’re warm weather creatures, you and me. Marjorca, that’s us. We ought to fucking migrate each bloody winter .’

‘ And the board will help us bloody pack,’ said Pete. ‘Way things are going .’

But then things, these things that are always going, these things start to look up; Derby go on a little run, a little run to keep you warm in these long, dark winter months. You beat West Brom in the league and then draw against Tottenham in the cup, going on to win the replay 5–3 after extra time –

Back from 3–1 down with just twelve minutes to go; back with a Roger Davies hat-trick; back to beat QPR 4–2 in the fifth round .

But all good things, these good things, must come to an end and you go and get Leeds United in the quarter-finals of the FA Cup. This means Derby have to play Leeds twice in two weeks, once in the league and once in the cup, and these are not just any two weeks; you have to play Leeds United four days before you meet Spartak Trnava in the quarter-finals of the European Cup; then you have to play Leeds again, four days before the return leg against Trnava. If you were a superstitious man, you’d think Lady Luck had deserted you, turned her back against you –

But you’re not a superstitious man and you never will be .

If you were a religious man, you’d think God had deserted you, turned his back against you. But you’re not a religious man and never will be. You don’t believe in God –

You believe in football; in the repetition of football; the repetition within each game, within each season, within the history of each club, the history of the game –

That is what you believe in; that and Brian Howard Clough .

* * *

The sharp knife and loaded gun. The long rope. The post-mortem. The press conference: Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘We are not gloomy,’ I tell the press. ‘We will just have to work harder.’

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘Certain players have been badly missed,’ I tell them.

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘I am delighted that Clarke and Hunter will be available for Saturday.’

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘We are not gloomy,’ I tell the press again. ‘We will just have to work harder.’

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season; the door and the exit. The corners and the corridors. The office. The long rope. The sharp knife. The loaded gun. The door. The exit.

* * *

The winter is almost gone and Europe is here again. But Europe will be gone too, if you do not win tonight. For these have not been a happy two weeks –